


Anchors

by LittleLinor



Series: GENERATION Emblem [2]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fire Emblem Fusion, Bloodplay, Body Horror, Consensual Kink, DOES THIS COUNT AS XENO, Dragon Kink honestly, M/M, Special guest appearance by Shingo, nonsexual kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7387570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment of intimacy after the war.<br/>Chrono struggles with Grima's legacy, Ibuki with the remains of loss and older trauma he's barely starting to unwrap. Sometimes, self-acceptance starts with trust.</p><p>Part of my cfv g/fire emblem awakening crossover</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchors

**Author's Note:**

> In case you haven't read the companion fic, a summary of the plot can be found [here](http://usedempyrealthunder.tumblr.com/post/146897036137/fire-emblem-g-the-plot).
> 
> THIS FIC IS BASICALLY Lily's fault, they drew me [something amazing](http://uselesslilium.tumblr.com/post/146899299394/) and I just had to put it into words (blood warning, although it's less graphic than this fic by far)  
> It takes place a year after Chrono and Ibuki start traveling together (after the main plot), when they're staying with Shingo and Naoki.

The first reaction your body has whenever you draw close to his dragon form is still fear.  
It's nothing that you can control, and no fear of your mind, but a trembling in your gut that hums into your blood and twists your lungs, your throat. Even when you swallow it, even when your breath unknots, the fear keeps brushing at the inside of your skin, weighting in the pit of your stomach.  
You know it still makes him uncomfortable sometimes. Not that you're scared of him, specifically (and he of all people knows that physical panic will not stop you from being close to him, from baring yourself), but that this fear exists at all, that the aura that surrounds him hasn't disappeared entirely with Grima. He is still, in some ways, an incarnation of that which he set out to defeat, a heir of sorts, and although he is building a much different legacy, you know he would rather not be reminded of this bond at all.  
You, however, appreciate the fear, how deep and automatic it is. For its own taste, yes, but mostly for the knowledge of his presence, his existence, for knowing that his closeness is potent enough that your body overrides your mind.  
He feels that much more real, and you're thankful for that.

And you think he knows it. With the lands that you cross mostly at peace under Aichi's leadership, there is no need for the power his dragon form offers. And yet, he hasn't rejected it, and doesn't shy from it, although he never leaves human shape around strangers. Alone or with friends, he transforms regularly, and has even come to terms with the effect he seems to have on others of his kind. Embraced it, even.  
(Seeing Kai's slightly subdued demeanour whenever Chrono is in the area is guiltily amusing)  
But most of all, he stays direct with you, enters your space with no warning even in this form, and your heart stammers every time but you wouldn't trade it for anything.  
Slowly, with the luxury of privacy, you learn your way around this body of his, just like you do with his human one, and around this fear, this awe he inspires in you. You embrace the tightness of your lungs when he bends close to you, the hitch in your breath when one of his legs lands close to your feet and makes the ground tremble. You learn yourself, your reactions, and start reading his too, the angles of his lips, of his eyes and wings that shift with his emotions. You know this narrowing of his eyes, this sharpening of his pupils is affection as much as it can be hunger, you know this lowering of his smaller wings is focus, and the tilt of the larger ones excitement. You can tell the difference between a snarl and a smile, the biggest change in the corner of his lips, and the relaxation of his tongue.  
That you have a fascination for his teeth is, all things considered, really not that surprising.  
It is, you think, hard not to at least _think_ about the fact that some of them are as long as your head, one way or another. That you react to it with compulsive curiosity instead of repulsion is just a matter of personal taste.  
But unlike his claws, they are only rarely bared, and it only feeds your excitement when they are.

It was only a matter of time before you brought in intimacy even in this form. At first, it was just for comfort: nights when he stays in this shape and away from camp, or from wherever you're staying are never good nights, and you don't want to leave him alone. No matter how much he's pushed you to get over the guilt of involving him, you still ache whenever the price he's had to pay for saving the world comes back to the surface. You don't want him to be alone. You don't want him to be sad. And most of all, you don't want him to feel like an alien, a stranger in the world whose future was shaped by his very heart.  
_You belong here_ , you want to tell him. But at the very least, you want him to feel like he belongs with you.  
So you always go, unless he asks you not to, to find him and rest at his side, nestle between his limbs and body if he's lying down, just leaning on his leg or sitting next to him otherwise, just to talk, just to be there.  
And it works, at least a little. Soon he comes to expect your presence, picks spots that are easy to access for a human on foot, nuzzle you as you arrive when he's in a good enough mood. His voice gets less strained, too, as if he was accepting the feelings and living with them, and you wish he didn't have to, but you're still glad they're not torturing him anymore.  
It's not perfect, but he's better. And the warmth of his body makes you feel safe, even as his aura still makes your skin and stomach shudder.  
And slowly you start to caress him in this form too, to learn the shape of his scales with your fingers, with your lips. It comes surprisingly easily once you start, your urge to keep touching him feeding into your movements, and when he starts responding to it, it slowly slips from simple comfort into the possibility of something more.  
You dive into that possibility with about as much restraint as Kai has when fighting.  
Because your heart skips when he nuzzles you more forcefully, your throat goes dry when he purrs, rumbles deep and heavy and bares his teeth even a little, the hand that was on the edge of his lip suddenly just within reach, and when a hand comes behind your back, to support you and hold you in place, you feel like you could let him do anything, everything.  
He's so overwhelmingly large compared to you, and knowing that he's on the smaller side for a dragon does nothing to silence the dizzying awe in your heart.  
You want—you've wanted for a long time, but it comes strongest now, fed by this trembling feeling and the ever-humming desire to cling to his existence—you want to be his. You want him to _make_ you his.  
But mostly, you want him to want to. The idea makes your heart twist with longing and warmth.

And so one night, carried by your feelings, you ask.  
You've been petting at him, letting his teeth near your chest, your neck, touching them carefully with your fingertips. And maybe it's the heat coming from him that wipes away your control as it blazes against your hand, brushes around your neck and through your hair.  
“… I have a request.”  
“Oh yeah?” the magic around him resonates, carrying his voice from the bottom of his throat.  
“… would you bite me?”  
He actually blinks in surprise, a surprised puff of hot air blowing your hair back.  
“That's a bit...” He breathes in, nuzzling closer to you, scales against your face. “… maybe. Where?”  
You opt to show him. Slowly, carefully, you let your hand caress down the length of his upper fang, feeling the damp smoothness of it under your fingers. He waits, keeping himself still. You reach the bottom, and instead of moving away like you usually would, curve your hand instead, letting the sharp tip scrape against your skin as you cup it, until it rests into the center of your palm, the back of your hand laid on the bottom row just lightly enough to hurt.  
“Like this,” you breathe, cuddling close and resting your head against his because just the sensations, just the idea, are enough to make you slightly dizzy.  
He tightens his jaw almost imperceptibly, just enough to trap your hand between his teeth, not yet piercing the skin unless you try to pull it out.  
You bite your lip.  
“Like this, huh? You sure about that? It's going to hurt a lot.”  
You shiver.  
“I'm ready for it.”  
“But do you _want_ it to hurt?”  
He's toying with you gently, you realise. And yet, taking care of you at the same time. You haven't always been immune to urges to harm yourself.  
You know your answer isn't irrelevant.  
“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, I want it. I want to feel _you_ ,” you add, gently rubbing your thumb along his fang. “Please.”  
Silence falls for a few seconds as you swallow, the trepidation in your stomach mixing with the anticipation in your heart. And then he nuzzles you, just slightly, and even that much is enough to drag the tip of his fang against some of your skin, scratching at it, and you gasp.  
“… I have some bandages in my bag,” he says. “Unless you have something too? We'll need to bandage it until we get home, you can't lose too much blood.”  
A slight pang of guilt goes through you. You hadn't thought of it.  
“I don't… thank you.”  
“I'm just saying. I'll have to transform back for it.”  
You nod.  
He sighs, then, warming you, and you rest your weight against him, cuddling closer.  
Your skin breaks.  
You let out a whimper—it's sharp, this pain needling up your arm, but you know it's only a test prickle, nothing to compare to what you'll feel soon. But even that—even that is enough to ease your barriers down, make you press your cheek against him, almost rubbing, your breath picking up.  
The tip of his fang sinks through the flesh of your palm and you gasp, already almost panting as the pain spreads in your hand like a cramp.  
And still you want it, want to crumble against him as he goes through you.  
“Are you sure you can stay still?” he asks quietly. “It'll be dangerous if you move.”  
“Yes,” you whimper, and you don't even care what your voice sounds like. You've trained for this kind of thing, can keep control of your limbs even under some kinds of torture. “I can do it, I promise.”  
“Okay.” A breath. “Hang on tight.”  
The scream that bursts out of your throat almost covers the sound of breaking bone.  
You smother it against his scales as pain crashes through you and makes your muscles spasm, as blood bursts over your hand and wrist, as your fingers twitch. And still his fang moves, sinking deeper through the hole it's broken into your palm, joining with his teeth underneath. You gasp, rasping breath clawing through your lungs, and scream again, face pressed hard against his, willing your arm not to move even as the rest of your body trembles.  
“Ibuki...”  
There's concern in the voice that resonates through your body, but something else too, something etched with hunger and wonder, and _yes_ , this is what you wanted so badly, even more than the pain. For him to want it, to want you, to take pleasure in your pain and your blood and the breaths you struggle to push out of your throat. You bite your lip and whimper, your other arm tightening around him, hanging on to him with all your strength.  
“C—chro—” and you whimper again, try to catch your breath— “ _yes_ ,” you let out, and it's tiny and weak but you don't _care_.  
You don't care.  
There's blood running down your arm, and his tongue slides around it to catch it.  
You finally turn your face enough to look. It's blurred—when did you start crying—but there's no way to miss his fang nailed through your wrecked hand, or the blood running from it. You bite your lip again, try to get your breath under control, and feel and see your fingers twitch again. Some of them. Some of them you can't feel anymore, and your heart skips a beat as the realisation hits.  
_Right through_ , your brain supplies again as you stare at the mangled edge between flesh and tooth, and maybe that shouldn't be what makes your heart beat harder but it does, pumping into your body warmth that almost rivals the pain.  
You nuzzle him gently, no barriers left to hold back your affection.  
He's holding you there by that hole in your hand, no way to move it or pull it back, and you love it with every fiber of your being.  
His tongue slides back up your arm to lap at your hand and you shudder again at the assault of sensation mixing with the pain still pulsing through what you can feel of your hand. From his throat, a low rumble rises, half-purr, half-growl of excitement, heavy and deep and continuous. It spreads through your body through everywhere you touch, joining with your shudders, bringing your panting breath into high relief. You're still bleeding, you absently note as you stare, small rivulets of it leaking at your edge where he's pierced through, much smaller than the initial spurt. He's keeping it blocked, you realise, and that wins you time. So you allow yourself to take your time and stare as it mixes with his saliva, to listen as his purr keeps wrapping around you, affectionate and hungry both. Your lips tickle and you lick them. Taste salt.  
Still crying.  
You take a deep, shaky breath, press your face against him again.  
“I love you,” you quietly sob into his scales. The words break out of your chest, and your tension with them, your sobs redoubling as the weight of it falls off your shoulders. You let them, only gasping and whimpering when your slight shift in position pulls on the wound. “I love you,” you murmur again, and being able to say it feels so _good_ , so warm and weak and right. You want to tell him again and again. “ _Chrono..._ ”  
“I know,” comes his gentle response. “I know.”  
And you know he does, because this is _tender_ , because you know how careful he is, how much control it takes him to pierce you but not destroy you altogether. You know what his teeth and jaws are capable of; you've seen animals almost as large as you broken in a single bite, bones snapped almost effortlessly. Such a precise puncture, hard enough to break bones and skewer cleanly but restrained enough to stop as soon as he's gone through and not let the rest of his teeth so much as graze you, is a testament to how much attention he pays when it comes to you, to how dedicated he is to not harming you.  
And you didn't think to doubt him even a single second. You knew he could, would do it, the second he agreed to even try.  
At another time, you might have thought it pathetic of you. But it isn't, your heart clamours, making itself heard for once over the mess of thoughts that is still your mind. It isn't. This is trust, not weakness, and caught like this blissfully at his mercy, you can remember how much he's said it means to him.  
You want him to remember this too.  
“Ibuki...” his voice comes, quiet and surprisingly gentle.  
“Mmm?” you answer between two laboured breaths.  
“I'm going to pull out, okay? I… I want to hold you.”  
You nod, swallowing.  
“Don't move,” he warns, pressing your wrist in place with his tongue.  
He relaxes his jaw, and you clench your teeth around another scream, rough and hoarse from before and desperate. The surface of his retreating fang pulls at your flesh, at fragments of broken bone that grind against you and drag whimpers out of your throat. You hang on to him as the last of it moves out of your hand, and it takes a small nudge of his head for you to finally blink new tears out of your eyes and pull your hand back to you, holding it to your chest while he moves back and transforms.  
You're reeling. His head had been a strong, sturdy support, and now you have to hold yourself up, to deal with the pain with nothing to cling to, and it's making your breath stagger again, rough and out of rhythm. And your hand is bleeding—faster, now, with nothing to stop the blood from leaving, and you want to stare at it, but you also know you can't, and you're floating too much to make yourself react.  
He drops to his knees in front of you and grabs your head for a short second, leaving a fierce kiss to your forehead.  
“I'll be right here, just give me a moment, I need to take care of your hand first. Hang on, okay?”  
You nod, wordlessly. He pulls out bandages from his kit with quick, efficient movements that your drowsy eyes struggle to follow, bunches one in a ball to press into the hole—you choke a little but don't pull back your hand—before wrapping the rest around your palm, painfully tight. It throbs, sends pain up your arm and into your bones, an ache that fills your entire body and makes you feel both light and heavy, your mind light and your body steadily pulled towards the ground.  
His arms catch you before you can even start to curl up, and he pulls you against his chest, fierce and protective and passionate, and you burry your face into his shoulder as your tears start anew.  
One of his hands fists into your hair at the nape of your neck, his other arm tight around your waist.  
“I'm here.” He nuzzles your cheek, the same movement he was doing just a little earlier when his head was bigger than you, noses hair away from your face and ear, murmurs: “I love you too.”  
You bring your good arm around his head to keep him there and sob desperately into his hair.  
He's here. He's here and the pain is spreading through all of you and there's a hole in your hand that's shaped like him and _he's alive_. He's alive. You'd take another thousand bites if it could write his existence in your body, carve it into you like a prophecy in stone, until it becomes as true and lasting and sure as the sunrise.  
You nuzzle him back, fingers finally curling into his hair.

It takes a while for your sobs to die down. He soothes you silently, thumbs that rub into your scalp and ribs, wonderfully heavy and solid. There's nothing light or delicate about his hold, but that's exactly what you want right now. It feels warm, secure. Real.  
You take a deep breath and squeeze him back.  
“Better?” he asks quietly.  
“Yes.” Your voice is back closer to its original range, but hoarse still, and you can't keep the breath out of it. Not that you care. “… thank you.”  
He smiles against the side of your head.  
“'s okay. It was nice.” A pause, and then he moves just a bit closer to your ear, teasing. “Your blood really does taste good, by the way.”  
You bite your lip to swallow a small moan, and almost feel offended by how easily your voice shot back up. He grins and holds you tighter.  
Another moment passes. Slowly, the contact of his body grounds you, although no amount of drowsy blinking can clear the dizziness you still feel. Blood loss, you think absently.  
He's still holding you close, maybe a little tighter than you'd expected. Clinging. _I want to hold you_ , his voice rings in your mind again. You squeeze him back, try your best to reassure him too. He looks so natural doing all this that sometimes you almost forget that he can be scared to.  
You cuddle a little closer, and he lets out a sigh of comfort.  
“… we need to get you home,” he finally says, disappointment in his voice. “You can't lose any more blood.”  
“… I know.” You make yourself straighten, and the way the world spins as you do only confirms it. You blink aggressively until it steadies.  
He pulls back, tired, sheepish smile pulling at one side of his mouth.  
“Let's hope Shingo doesn't get mad we didn't warn ahead. Although,” he adds with a slight chuckle, “Naoki might have heard you. You were kinda loud.”  
You look away, cheeks surprisingly cold despite everything in you telling you that you're actually blushing.  
He bumps his forehead against yours.  
“Hey, _I_ liked it. I don't hear you like that often.”  
“… glad to be of service,” you sigh, not finding the strength to really pretend to be sarcastic.  
He smiles and pulls back, standing up before transforming again.  
“C'mon,” he nudges you, offering one of his hands for you to sit in. “I'll carry you.”  
You lean into his hold, rest your head against his palm as a second set of claws comes to encase you, and let him carry you into the sky.

 

(“That's going to scar,” Shingo scowls at you as he works, the power from his staff slowly knitting bone and muscle back together. “I'm a Sage, not a miracle worker.”  
You smile over pain-gritted teeth.  
“Good.”)


End file.
